She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
–She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways, William Wordsworth
This poem has stayed with me ever since I studied it at school a few years ago, haunted me even, probably because I identified so much with “Lucy”. That scared me. I’ve taught myself to compress my presence into the least inoffensive, bite-size portions. Even when my attempts at this are not successful, I’ve had people who were more than willing to help me accomplish this feat, glorying in my stunted self-perception so they could attempt to shine.
The Lucy act is officially over. Please take your trash with you and head for the exit.
Exit stage permanently, eternally.
Compressing, and moulding, and folding, and hiding; frankly it was getting a little too cramped in here. Time to stretch.
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